Always
by Daring Dashwood
Summary: Every time June gave into July, Arthur just wanted to die like the pathetic nation he was. July meant the fourth, and the fourth meant his former charge threw ridiculously extravagant parties. But this birthday was different, and not in a good way.


**Always**

A/n – Just a little dark and depressing snippet to ruin your Fourth of July weekend. ;)

Note: **Not** AmericaxEngland

* * *

Every time June gave into July, Arthur just wanted to curl into a miserable hole of self-loathing and die like the pathetic nation he was. July meant the fourth, and the fourth meant his former charge threw ridiculously extravagant parties. Parties thrown for the sole intent of inflating his already bloated ego, for gloating about how he won, how he beat mean old England, with his ugly bushy caterpillar brows, with his nasty cooking and horrible tea, with his—

Ahem.

Despite the fact that Arthur hates the fourth of July, and that America _know that he hates it, _the young nation has always invited England to the parties. And even if he didn't always go, and much rather preferred to drown his sorrows in scotch, he knew that the next year, he'd still get that same gaudy invitation. (He hates the things; every time he so much as touches it red, white, and blue glitter falls off and makes a mess all over the place.)

And Alfred learned, after time, to not be disappointed when England didn't show. It finally got through his thick skull that his older brother hated that day, and what he felt it represented. It always reminded Arthur of the god awful combination of rain, sopping wet gun powder, _You used to be so big, Engla—_

America just wanted praise and food, and that was one of the few days he could get both, and out of so many people.

But England always, _always _got an invitation. So, when June gave into July, and then, finally, it was the eve of the dreaded day, and Arthur had still not received the invitation from his former colony, he was totally, utterly confused.

(And hurt. Not that he should, it was just a bloody invitation from a total bleeding git, but_ still_—)

Maybe America just forgot to invite him, some small, pro-America part of his brain suggested. That part of his brain was immediately beaten to the ground, gang raped, barbequed, dipped in ranch dressing, and eaten.

America probably just doesn't care about him, Arthur seethes, clenching his tea cup so hard his knuckles whiten and the cup wobbles dangerously with his fury. Yes, he's probably had enough of pretending to like Arthur, and has stopped inviting him to those blasted parties of his. He'd had enough of crazy wackjob England, who sat and talked to fairies all day. Alfred much preferred to spend his time with pretty little Japan, who always agreed and flattered and praised him, batting those pretty little porcelain doll eyes all the while. Why would he like England, who grumbles and gripes and whines like a little bitch about all the mistakes he makes? Despite the fact that England raised him, fed him, clothed him, taught him, _had not shot him—_

America probably wants England to call him, throwing a hissy fit about the invitation. He wants to be in charge, and to make a fool of the older nation. Well, England refused to grant Alfred that satisfaction. He crossed his arms defiantly, releasing an irritated huff.

(The tea cup had, thankfully, been spared the Wrath of Arthur Kirkland ©. It sat on its saucer, some of its brown contents spilled due to the force that England had put it down with.)

No, Arthur would wait until either Alfred got bored and called him, or until the next United Nations meeting (God knows whenever that was). He was not going to give in, not going to hit number two on his speed dial. (His boss was first, of course.) Nope. No siree, not him.

England could feel the cell phone watching, waiting. It seemed to grin at him with big, lecherous teeth. _Call him_, it cooed. _Call him_.

England grabbed the book he'd left on the table, hoping it would provide ample distraction. It was rather lengthy but nothing he couldn't handle. The thick novel was _Under the Dome_, by Stephen King. America had lent it to him.

America.

His party.

No invitation.

_Call him. _

God_ dammit. _

* * *

"Al-America," England practically spits out the name into the phone. His tea cup mocks him from its saucer. _You're weak_, it muttered out. The nation started to growl at it, before he realizes what the hell he's doing and immediately returns his attention back to the cell phone.

(Yes, he really does need to sleep more.)

Had England not been so intently focused on his tea cup, he would've noticed the unusually long pause on the other end. Even as a child, Alfred had never been quiet.

"America…?" He said again.

"_Hey, England."_

What. The. Hell.

What happened to Iggy? Arty? Why does he care, anyway?

"America," England starts for a third time, just now realizing how stupid he's going to sound. (More like weak.) "Every year, you've always thrown ridiculous parties. And you always invite me. So, why is there no invitation in my bleeding mailbox?"

"_Because I didn't through a party this year." _

By the Queen, England was losing it. Talking tea cups, and now _this_. Maybe he should just turn himself over now before he hurts someone.

"Are you kidding me, America?"

"_No, England. I've just been…too busy to bother to—"_ America was cut off by a serious bought of coughing, and England was about to smack himself for being so stupid.

Of course America was acting odd—the blood that ran through his veins was coated with oil.

"I'm coming over," He said briskly, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Where are you?"

"_England, you really don't have to—"_

"Where. Are. You?"

There was a resigned sigh on the other end of the line, sending another jolt of concern through Arthur. Alfred always bantered with him, even if he knew the older was right. The young nation was especially adamant in refusing help. September eleventh had been an absolute nightmare, and in more ways than one.

England was so caught up in the memory of fire and ash, of suicides and collapses, that he didn't hear America's mumbled answer.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"_I'm in Florida. Destin." _

"I'll be there in a few hours."

* * *

The flight had taken longer than England had expected, and it was around nine o'clock when he finally arrived in the orange state.

"That is the last time I take passenger planes," England grumbled as he looked for the exit. Alfred had not met him there, and he hadn't really expected the nation to.

It wasn't that hard to find Alfred, even in the growing darkness. The beaches of Florida were bare of tourists, or anyone, for that matter; the environmental cleanup groups had already turned in for the night.

England's former charge was just sitting there, the oil coated ocean lapping at his heels. His bomber jacket was covered in sand and grime, but he didn't seem to care.

"Alfred…" He said, sitting down beside the poisoned nation. "Alfred, look at me."

Alfred would not, until England grabbed his chin and forced him to. The shining blue eyes were dull and dimmed, and seemed to stare straight through Arthur.

"Alfred, I know that things have been going bad for you lately, but you'll pull through this, just like you always have. Remember…remember Pearl Harbor?" England was even now wary of mentioning 9/11. The wound was still too fresh.

"You were hurt pretty badly, but you were there the next day, issuing orders for a counterattack against Japan."

"And very nearly killed Kiku."

"That's not the point." The Brit said calmly. "The point is that you managed to pick yourself up and move on. Besides, didn't you tell us at the last UN meeting that it would only take one month more to clean up the spill?"

America had no reply to that. The two sat in a not-quite-calm silence, listening to the gentle roar of the ocean. England fiddled absentmindedly with a shell.

"Seventy-six," Alfred said softly. So soft, the Brit strained to hear him over the oil-slicked sea. "I used to really like that number. It reminded me of the day I declared my freedom, became my own country."

Arthur bit his tongue, withholding the biting words, ignoring the age old wound that tugged at his heart. America didn't need this right now, on top of everything.

Nevertheless, Alfred caught him making that nostalgic, lonely face that he had when he was horribly drunk.

"You know that's not—" Another choking, gurgling cough of black oil. "—what I mean, Arthur."

Swallowing hard, said nation nodded.

"But now…I hate that number. I can't think of today as my birthday, all I can think is that this is the seventy-sixth day of this." He gestured to the water. "This fiasco. This disaster."

England put a comforting hand on Alfred's shoulder, frowning inwardly when he felt how tense the American was. "Alfred, it's not your—"

"It's not my fault. I know, I _know that_. But still…" He ran his hands through his hair jerkily, something England noticed he did when he was frustrated. "This shouldn't have happened. These are my people, my children, they shouldn't be like this."

"Like what?"

"They just—they shouldn't—" America grew more and more agitated, starting to pace in the sand. The British man could tell the other nation was going to snap any second now, and he was unsure if he should egg him on.

Oh hell, just go with it.

"They shouldn't what?" He pressed.

Much like his levies had under the strain of Katrina, America burst. "They shouldn't be so stupid! So ignorant and greedy! They're so lazy and useless, and are willing to become pawns if it means they don't have to do any work. No one believes in doing anything by themselves anymore, no one even tries. I'm the only superpower, the most powerful fucking country, and yet I'm stuck with the most miserable, bitchy, fat idiots in the whole world! I can't—"

America was set upon by a coughing fit so violent he fell to his knees, curling in on himself painfully. The sticky black goo leaked through his madly trembling fingers, and poured into the sand. England was by his side in an instant, (as he always was and always had been) rubbing soothing circles into America's back. He knew his attempts at comfort were useless, but he had to do _something_.

As the sick nation continued to hack up oil, England took the pause to consider Alfred's harsh words. It had been the pain and frustration that was speaking, not Alfred. He treasured his people more than his hamburgers, heroes, even Arthur himself. He didn't mean it. He _couldn't_ mean it.

"Oh, Alfred…" Was all the Brit could say, truly at a loss for words. When the fierce hacking finally receded, the superpower raised his face to stare at England, defeated.

"Arthur….Please just—just hold me." He was full out sobbing now, his tear ducts working overtime. "I need you, brother. D-don't leave me."

England drew him close in an embrace. At other times, it would be semi-awkward, but not now. His younger brother needed him, and he'd let the frog kiss him before he abandoned him in his time of need.

"I will never leave you, Alfred," The Brit whispered fiercely. _I never did. It was you who left me this day, all those years ago._

"Always?" And America sounded so, _so _close to going off the edge that England couldn't stand it.

"Always." England promised.

* * *

-Fin-

A/n – I started this last night, and completely forgot what the original ending was. Hopefully it was still satisfactory.

-The-Sharp-Machete-


End file.
